Thy Kingdom Come
by phollie
Summary: And just beyond the glass, salvation waits. Miharu/Yoite. K.


This story. _Hurts._

It doesn't hurt in the sense that it's full of horrible angst, or soulcrushing tragedy, or unrequited love or any of the usual sorts of things that I write for. No, this story...it's like...it's like touching sunlight after a long, long time of going cold. Imagine yourself shrouded in shadow for months on end, and you're floundering about in the dark without any hope of escaping, and then, quite out of nowhere, something pulls you out. And it hurts because it's so bright, and your eyes aren't quite used to it just yet, but you can't stop staring directly into it because, god, the light, it's _beautiful._

This is that sort of story for me. Pretentious, I know, but...this is my heart. This story is my _heart_.

That being said, I don't own anything. Lyrics are Switchfoot.

* * *

**.thy kingdom come+**

/

_[welcome to the planet_

_welcome to existence]_

/

First, there's quiet. Then, there's a wash of amber morning spilling across the floor like an upturned bucket of paint. And then, standing in the middle of it, there's Yoite.

The order of these observations is completely backwards, Miharu knows. Under normal circumstances, he would have plucked the image of the boy out of the backdrop before noticing anything else beforehand; a side effect, he thinks, of having been in such close proximity with him for so long. He's picked up a knack for catching shades of blue out of random scenery, little blinks of colour that don't disperse even when he closes his eyes. Sometimes, when he's lingering in the wakeful world just before falling asleep, his mind conjures memories of that hushed, breathless voice promising him royalty in place of dissolving into soundlessness. There are even moments when he glances at his reflection and sees another face entirely, one that's doleful and timorous and so very _white. _

But now, here in this ramshackle train with the shattered windows and columns of bamboo shooting up proudly through the floor, Miharu can scarcely make him out. With the way that the sun is crashing all around him, bouncing from wall to wall like a dancing, golden child, he's almost completely obscured by it, upstaged, swallowed. If it weren't for the black of his clothing piercing through this awful brightness and the mournful, not-quite-imaginary echo of his very presence, Miharu thinks he would have overlooked him altogether.

And so, atoning, he approaches him carefully and says, "Yoite."

Yoite doesn't react. He stands in profile, ramrod-straight and staring directly ahead of him. Whatever expression is on his face, Miharu can't tell, and so he moves in closer to him, as cautious and as silent as a small bird. "It's so bright right now, isn't it? I can barely even see you." He gives a soft laugh. "It's a good thing you wear so much black, huh?"

Even still, Yoite remains motionless. This alone is disconcerting, because with stillness comes thought, and with thought comes darkness, and Miharu hasn't worked this hard to keep the darkness away from Yoite to let it bite into him again. He reaches out to him now, just grazing Yoite's arm, and the touch seems to pull the boy back to him just long enough for their eyes to meet.

And while he has him, Miharu smiles and asks, "You alright?"

Yoite's heavy eyes scan Miharu's face, never settling on one feature for too long, before he turns back to stare out ahead of him, out the window and into the light.

This is okay, Miharu thinks. This is okay, this is safe, because there are no tears or screams or pleads, no sobs of lost redemption or nightmarish gasps from slender throats; no, there's none of this, because right now, there's only Yoite, all white and black and quiet flashes of blue, warm and alive in the sun.

"It's weird, you know," Miharu says, taking a seat. "It's like...on mornings like these, you can almost _hear_ the sunlight." As a throwaway, he shrugs and adds, "Or something."

The sharp point of Yoite's throat bobs in a swallow. For a moment, he seems to contemplate speaking, but the words are choked back on a breath and all that comes out is a shuddering exhallation that Miharu hopes isn't rattling or hoarse, hopes that he really didn't just hear the faint but all too real sound of a cough bubbling up in Yoite's throat. A cough, or perhaps a sob, no...

And so Miharu keeps talking. He talks about the sun and the moon, the changing of the seasons, the way that time eats away at clocks and yet nothing ever changes, the way his head aches when he stands up too quickly. He talks about how it never snows here anymore, and how silent things get when everything goes white. He talks about his hatred of the ocean, his love of the night, and his indifference to everything else in between.

He talks about everything he doesn't care about, just to keep the darkness away. Bring in the light, fill that space, just _keep that darkness away from Yoite._

Miharu jumps to his feet when Yoite's suddenly fail him, just barely catching him before he hits the ground. He feels bony shoulders prodding through the wool of his coat, sees him shivering in his skin, hears his strained breathing, and Miharu thinks, _I should have talked more, should have kept him distracted, should have - _

Searching Yoite's face, he sees that he's crying; and then, he sees something else.

It's as if the boy has just graced infinity. His eyes aren't pinned shut in agony or rage or any of the emotions that Miharu has seen painted on that thin face time and time again; instead, they're wide open, drinking in the golden pulse of light fanning all around him, blossoming across every inch of his poor, spent body and fusing into the white of his skin so that he glows serene and immaculate. His jaw is agape, lips quivering as if breathing in life by the lungful and alighting all that's dead and dying inside of him.

One trembling hand reaches out, seeking, grasping, trying to catch hold of heaven.

And Yoite whispers, "It's beautiful."

It's just two words, two words that can barely stand their ground on their wobbly, weak feet, but suddenly, Miharu can't breathe. His grip slackens on the boy's shoulders, holding instead of clutching, as Yoite's stunned gaze flutters down to fix itself on him.

Blue. He'll be seeing these shades of blue for the rest of his life.

"Miharu," Yoite gasps out through a bewildered almost-smile. He turns his eyes back to the window, where salvation waits just beyond the glass. "It's beautiful..."

Miharu's breath comes back to him in an overwhelming rush, his lungs filling and contracting with a cool sweep of air. He thinks he might be crying, too, maybe just a little bit, and so he bows his head and finds respite in the slight dip of Yoite's chest, smiling softly into the wool. "I've never noticed before," he murmurs, "but I think you're right."

Yoite's chest jumps in breathy sobs, just lingering on the edge of laughter. Timid hands find Miharu's shoulders. Blue eyes close.

And beneath the black and the white, the bones and the bruises, Miharu can hear it.

Yoite's heart. Beating.


End file.
